


Compound interest is a hell of a drug

by westintotheblack



Category: Family Guy
Genre: Bad Parenting, Gen, Grandpa Pewterschmidt hates Peter too, Planning Ahead, forgotten birthdays, teenagers who read Gone Girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:38:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7862041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westintotheblack/pseuds/westintotheblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meg Griffin has realized that being ignored has its perks. And she's realized that it's easier to escape when nobody's watching you dig the tunnel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compound interest is a hell of a drug

**Author's Note:**

> There's an iPhone mentioned in the story, but I'm placing this in 2008 or so.

Megan thought of herself as a Megan, but hard experience had taught her that nobody cared how she thought of herself. And if they paid attention to her, it rarely turned out well. So Megan figured it was better for everyone else to see her as _Meg_ , and call her Meg, and she'd flourish as Megan in the quiet privacy of social neglect.

And so Megan turned 17 on a muggy August day. Nobody in her family remembered. She had not expected them to, so her parents' birthday amnesia was oddly gratifying. It was nice to be right. It was even nicer not to be disappointed by Peter and Lois. It gave her an excuse to officially launch her plan.

Megan was 17 and she had one year left under the Griffin family roof. When she was 18, she was going to vanish. She had 365 days to make it happen.

For her birthday, Megan took herself downtown for a slice of pie from the bakery and then she opened a bank account at the new Bank of America, reasoning that a national bank chain would reduce the likelihood of paying ATM fees when she left town. She deposited a few paychecks from the soft-serve place just to establish a vague background detail in case anyone ever noticed anything about her. Then, when her parents had taken her brothers over to the Swansons' for a cookout, she went into Lois's desk. It was time to act on a hunch she'd developed when eavesdropping on the calls Lois made to her father only when Peter wasn't there.

( _Meghan_ _had stopped thinking of Lois as "Mom" on the night of her sixteenth birthday, when she lay awake feeling the hot trickle of tears in her ears, and wishing the door would open and her mother would come in to apologize. Lois had yet to notice._ )

Lois was a sloppy-to-indifferent household manager -- the aftereffects of being brought up with money -- and it was a little trying to find every envelope labeled with Megan's address. But Megan persisted and took the stack upstairs to open via judicious aim of the Joy! Steamer in Lois's closet.

Her detective work paid off: Grandpa Pewterschmidt had, in fact, set up trusts for each of the children and deposited $10,000 annually. And because Grandpa Pewterschmidt _hated_ Peter and distrusted Lois's judgment in choosing such a disappointing man as the father of her children, the old man had set up the terms of the trust so that neither Lois nor Peter were ever trustees. In fact, Megan would be able to get her hands on the trust the minute she turned 18.

 _Happy senior year to me!_ Megan thought. Her grandparents had just helped her escape. 

Megan scanned every page of every legal document she had opened (thank God for mobile phones with scan apps), compressed the files and uploaded them to the online archiving service she'd spoofed an account on during time at the school computer lab. She carefully reassembled the envelopes waved them to cool the temperature, then scattered them through the piles in Lois's desk.

Brian watched the whole time, looking worried as only a little white dog could. Megan scratched his rump and said thoughtfully, "Lois never told us about the trusts. I wonder if she ever would." Brian looked even more distressed after Megan said this. Megan was going to miss her only household ally .

The next Monday, Megan used her computer lab time to write a letter to Grandpa Pewterschmidt's lawyer, instructing him to direct all correspondence regarding to Megan's P.O. box at the post office, justifying, "With her college plans, it's best for Megan to establish a constant mailing address. This will be it." She added a paragraph instructing the lawyer to begin educating Megan on the responsibilities of the trust, as she'd be of legal age soon. Then she forged Lois's signature and dropped the letter in the mail.

It was gratifying to open her P.O. box later to see a letter acknowledging receipt of Lois Pewterschmidt Griffin's correspondence and proffering a formal introduction to Megan.

Weeks went by. The mail in Megan's P.O. box got progressively more interesting: Bank of America statements; a copy of her birth certificate from the state of Rhode Island's records department; confirmation that all correspondence regarding the Megan Caroline Griffin Trust would be sent to this address; Charles Schwab statements detailing how much money the Megan Caroline Griffin Trust had.

Megan looked at balance, then worked out the math backward. So _that_ was what happened when you left the principal alone.

Unbidden, her grandfather's voice rose up in her head, saying, _Compound interest is a hell of a drug_.

Megan kept the birth certificate in the safe-deposit box she had rented from the Bank of America. The remaining papers were scanned, uploaded to her electronic archive, then set afire behind the school. Peter's best friend was a cop; when Megan disappeared, it needed to be so total and so airtight, even Mr. Swanson wouldn't be able to figure out where she had gone.

More weeks went by. Megan offered to take over the grocery shopping, and Lois gratefully accepted. And since Lois never read receipts, she did not notice that every week's trip included the purchase of one $50 Visa gift card and one $50 Mastercard gift card. Megan stockpiled the cards in her safe deposit box.

Christmas happened and Megan pretended to be hurt when one festively-wrapped box for her was packed with sanitary pads and Lois brayed, "With a little luck, you'll become a woman and get asked to prom like Carrie." She let herself look disappointed and thought, " _Eight more months. You can do eight more months standing on your head_ ."

In January, Megan made a show of applying to a few colleges along the eastern seaboard. Chris wanted to apply too and Peter said slowly, "Now, Chris, you know your future is as a fast food service provider. Maybe if you make it to 25 without burning something down, we can talk about big-boy schools."

"Okay!" Chris agreed enthusiastically, and Megan had to restrain herself from telling Chris that the only reason he was being graduated with the rest of their class was because everyone at Quahog High wanted a break from the Griffins before they had to deal with Stewie in twelve years. There was no reason, she reminded herself, to carry on the family tradition of pissing all over someone's tiny, ordinary hopes.

In February, Megan wrote to AAA and asked for a Triptik outlining a route from Providence, RI to Portland, Oregon, preferably along I-90. (She wanted to see the Great Lakes.) In the event that Grandpa's attorney ever mentioned contacting Megan in Portland, Lois and Peter would assume Maine, and that would buy Megan some time to disappear again. When the map came, Megan tucked it into her bag and walked home through the slush, marveling how easy it was to think of the two adults with whom she lived as obstacles to be navigated. When she wondered whether Peter and Lois ever felt that way about their children, she stopped short.

"We were the wrong children and they were the wrong parents," she whispered to herself.

That night, Megan couldn't help but kiss the top of Stewie's head after she wiped his face. The poor baby, stuck for another 16 years with parents he couldn't even choose. Stewie impatiently swatted her and shouted, "No!" and Megan snapped out of her empathy fugue .

Winter dragged on too long, as usual, and Megan had a hard time of it when a blizzard kept her from the P.O. box for two weeks right when she needed to begin making plans for her trust disbursement. She got up and left the dinner table twice, the jeers of Peter and Chris following her out of the room; she snapped back at Lois; she even closed the door on Brian when he planted himself in her room with one of his horribly smug expressions.

It would have been easier, she thought, if she could have written everything out, could have read and reread her plans, could have _held_ them. But she couldn't risk anything. She knew Lois and Peter had been reading her diary, she knew they wouldn't hesitate to rifle through her belongings. The only way Megan could keep anything safe was to keep it off site. Even the thumbnail drive she kept with her as a backup was a risk.

Sighing, Megan tucked her thumbnail drive back under the seam of her watch cap and watched the snow and willed herself to calm down.

When spring came, Megan lucked into an anonymous-looking Acura thanks to a Craigslist ad that led to the offices of Mayor West. He looked embarrassed for only a minute, then quickly decided Megan was too naive to hold him over a barrel. He would accept only $500 and a long, lingering hug for payment. "Let's keep this off the books, just a friendly thing among neighbors," Mayor West said to her cleavage.

The car, she knew, was about to be impounded by the police. The mayor, she knew, liked girls just on the wrong side of legal -- easier to impress, easier to manipulate. And _she_ , she knew, already had an idea where to hide the car so nobody found it.

( _When she took off, Mayor West would not step forward with any theories about how she had escaped town, because it would only exacerbate his own legal troubles_.)

That evening, when Megan rolled the car into the carriage house at the back of her Grandpa's estate, she opened the glovebox and found pictures of her mother with the mayor. Nothing salacious -- just Lois in a strappy dress, sitting on the mayor's lap during a party, the good-time girl. But for a moment, Megan wondered uneasily if Lois _knew_. It would not be surprising if her parents were setting her up for the laugh of their lives.

She tried to dismiss the fear. Neither Lois nor Peter had noticed that she had not directly addressed them in months, nor called them "Mom" and "Dad" for 18 months. They weren't capable of noticing her, much less putting together any details.

That night, when Peter handed her a sweatshirt with, "I got you a gift. It's a Bowdoin sweatshirt. Because you're not going there," Megan fought to look devastated. Her diary entries had focused on how much she hoped she could go to Bowdoin. It was oddly gratifying to know Peter and Lois remained predictable in where they chose to focus their energies.

"Honey, I'll ask Daddy for the money to send you to Bowdoin," Lois said, handing Megan the acceptance package. Megan feigned delight and thought cynically how easy it was for Lois to press buttons to get what she wanted: goading her husband and appeasing her child in one sentence, holding all the power while she did it.

She tried to say, "Thanks, Mom!" but the second word stuck in her throat.

( _That was the beginning of the bad time. The strain of the secrecy and the weight of her doubts began to pile up. Megan couldn't eat without throwing up, and soon, she was losing weight. Since Megan had also read_ Gone Girl, _she knew that weight loss or gain would change someone's appearance, so she belted her pants and tried to find t-shirts that would help her look pudgy and reminded herself that it wouldn't matter in four months._ )

High school graduation came and went. Chris barely made it across the stage before he was in a car heading for Cape Cod. Megan was not asked to speak, not asked to graduation parties or beach week. She was the only senior overlooked for senior superlatives, an omission that was doubtlessly the work of Connie D'Amico.

"Best disappearance from this hellhole," Megan muttered to herself. "Suck it, Quahogs."

Megan was back at the soft-serve stand as her ostensible summer job before Bowdoin. She was honestly surprised that Lois had followed through with her father, and even more surprised that Lois had sat with her at the kitchen table to fill out the admissions packet. Every once in a while Megan wondered, _Would it really be that bad to go to Bowdoin? To come home only on breaks?_

And then Peter would do something dumb or Lois would drunkenly let slip that Megan was an unplanned pregnancy, and Megan would stop feeling guilty about wasting the tuition deposit her grandfather had sent in. She opened a P.O. box in Portland at a Mailboxes Etc.

Megan turned 18 on a muggy August day and woke to a house alive with noise. Lois was saying enthusiastically, "What a day to be born!" and for a moment, Megan felt a wild and guilty panic over all her plans.

Then Peter asked, "We gotta go to the hospital to be with Joe? _Whhhhhhhhhy_?" and Megan realized that Bonnie Swanson, who had been pregnant for what seemed like forever, must be finally ready to pop.

"Come on, Chris! Take Stewie, we're goin' to the hospital!" Lois blared. Megan felt very foolish and angry in that moment: She still hoped for something, anything, while the woman who had given birth to her on this date 18 years ago couldn't even remember her existence today.

Brian jumped on the bed and licked her face while Megan resolved that this was the last time she would cry for the family she had been born into.

Two days after Megan turned 18, she went to the OfficeMax and bought an accordion folder. She went to the bank, withdrew all but $500, and asked to see the contents of her safe deposit box.

And then, in a small cold room, under the flat white lights, Megan packed her future in that folder: her thumbnail drive. The high school transcripts and SAT scores she had sent to her P.O. box. Her Triptik for her pending road trip. Her car title and proof of insurance. Her birth certificate and the health records she had picked up from her doctor's office in her birthday. Her new Capital One credit card, because apparently anyone could get a credit card the minute they turned 18. Her legal correspondence with Mr. Driscoll, who seemed like a very nice lawyer, if one could judge such things by letters that included lines like, "Well planned, young lady." Her pile of Visa gift cards, which now totaled $1800.  Her latest Schwab statement which confirmed she could now access $281,323.80 _any time she wanted_ .

Compound interest was a hell of a drug.

Once the folder was packed, Megan left the bank and went to the post office to close out her P.O. box.

"Clean out the box," the manager ordered her, and so Megan packed her new LL Bean duffel with the new, smaller clothing she had ordered from a dozen different online retailers and the new glasses she'd ordered from Frames Direct, all on those Mastercard gift cards. How did people disappear before e-commerce? she wondered.

The bag was bulky and Megan swung it from shoulder to shoulder as she walked to the carriage house, sweating under her poly-blend soft-serve uniform and cursing the humidity. But she was able to slip through the overgrown blackberry whips to the carriage house and deposit the bag in the front passenger footwell -- reassuringly close to where she'd be sitting, yet safely tucked out of sight.

Then Megan came home and ate dinner with her family. She tried not to focus on how it was the last meal she'd have with these people. The urge to say something, anything, to serve as a goodbye or a last word crawled up in her throat and swelled there, making eating or drinking impossible.

Megan looked around the table: Peter and Lois looking at one another in shared contemptuous amusement, Stewie and Chris watching the adults, nobody noticing her. She allowed herself to really see their faces. Peter, his eyes blurred and watery behind glasses that were never cleaned; Chris, his chin already receding into the soft bulk of his neck, the cast of his long face making him look as mild and untroubled as a sheep; Stewie, sharp-eyed and wiggly; Lois, whose fading red hair and increasingly deflated cleavage made her seem suddenly pitiable.

These were not her people.

The lump in Meg's throat cleared and she finished her dinner. Then she went upstairs to doze before it was time to go.

Two a.m. came too soon, and Megan wished she could shower, but she couldn't run the risk of the noise waking anyone. She dressed quietly in the dark in clothes that were too big, made her bed for the last time, and wiped her iPhone. She left it on the bed. There was an Apple store in Buffalo; she'd pick up a new phone there.

Holding her shoes in her hand, Megan crept down the stairs, proud of herself for not peering into any rooms for any last looks at the people, proud of herself for being strong enough not to hope any more. Brian looked up from the couch and whuffed questioningly.

"Bye, Brian," Megan whispered into his ears. "I'll miss you, boy."

He did not get off the couch when she opened the door. Megan was relieved.

She had gotten to the end of her driveway, and she realized she wasn't alone on the street. Mr. Quagmire was walking some woman out to her car, and there was a light on at the Swanson house. Baby Susie was probably up. Megan froze.

The woman kissed Mr. Quagmire goodbye and he stood at the end of the driveway, watching the car pull out and drive down the street. The car was going in the opposite direction that Megan was, so she began walking, quickly and quietly, down the street. Three houses down, she began to run. If Mr. Quagmire called out to her, she'd claim she was developing a jogging habit. He'd buy the excuse.

Nobody called out. Megan ran anyway, ran the three miles to her grandfather's place, high on adrenaline and relief. Her purse smacked against her back in time to the rhythm of her feet; Megan didn't mind.

She slipped back through the blackberries. She didn't mind if her clothing became stained and torn. It wouldn't matter. Megan stopped outside the carriage house, willing her breath to slow, willing her heart to stop pounding. She slid the garage door open on silent wheels -- all that discreet oiling of the mechanisms had come in handy -- and fumbled with shaking hands for her purse flap. She unlocked the car, got in, put her purse on the seat, and double-checked that her duffel was on the floor. She locked herself in; that felt safer somehow.

Megan took a quavery breath, and another, and another. When her nerves failed to calm after five more breaths, she decided to hell with it, and started the Acura. She pulled out of the carriage house, put the car in park long enough to hop out and close the rolling door, then hopped back in, buckling and locking and imploring herself, "Come on, come on, _come on_ ."

She drove out of Quahog at the speed limit, hoping and praying she didn't catch any patrol cars out and about. Once outside Quahog, she pulled over, opened the car door and vomited. In Woonsocket, she found a 7-Eleven and bought a toothbrush and a giant bottle of water, then pulled out the Triptik.

"You've got this," Megan muttered. In the greenish light of 3:30 a.m., she looked exceptionally shaky. Her mouth looked drawn from stress, and for a moment, Megan saw Lois in her own face.

"You've got this," she repeated. "You're almost gone."

It wasn't until she caught the 90 just south of Worcester that Megan began to breathe normally. She was in western Massachusetts, among the dark and gentle rolling mountains, when the sky began to lighten. And by the time she got to the New York border, Megan was singing along with the radio.

There was still so much to do -- she needed to burn her clothes, she needed to cut and dye her hair, she needed to buy a phone, she needed to figure out what was _next_ now that she'd escaped. She needed to plan for how to _stay_ escaped.

But for now, she had forty-some hours on I-90, and she had a car and money and Visa cards. And for the first time ever, she had a safe space where nobody would insult her or hurt her or tell her to shut up. She could do _anything she wanted_ .

Megan Griffin rolled down the window of her car. She grinned at the feeling of the air against her face, and as the sun rose, she sang her way toward finding breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> The way Meg is treated has always bothered the hell out of me. So I wrote a Meg who got fed up and got out. This is totally unbeta'd, an afternoon's exercise in wish fulfillment. Also FYI, I literally have not written fic in years.
> 
> The plot bunnies have reproduced and I sort of want to write what happens next.


End file.
